by Mark Pryor
“Who did that to his bed?” he growled.
Understand that there was a code of honor at Maidstone. You could misbehave, you could be naughty, but if your mischief was uncovered, you were expected to own up. No one would ever squeal on you, but you absolutely had to own up—not doing so wasn't an option. Not even for me.
So I parsed his words. “Who did that to his bed?” was the question. Not Whose idea was that? Not Who suggested that? And so I didn't put up my hand. It wasn't just about avoiding the cane. It was about not getting caught, about avoiding the opprobrium that comes with sinning. It was an aversion far more powerful than any fear of pain.
Jeremy Gorst and Anthony de Kruyff put up their hands, spindly arms poking up out of flannel pajamas, and were sent downstairs to wait outside the headmaster's study, which was directly below us. Faisal was ordered to escort his victim to the matron, a burly Scottish woman who lingered a little too long and offered a little too much help on our bath nights.
When the headmaster stalked out, we lay in anxious anticipation. There was only one penalty facing those two boys, and our dormitory lay directly above the HM's study. We whispered among ourselves, wondering how many they'd get. And as we listened to the cane swish through the air, as we heard the crack of it down below us, I looked around at the awe and terror on the faces of the other boys, like unwilling witnesses to an execution. And I looked long and hard into their eyes to see whether they blamed me for this or whether I'd gotten away with it.
The real test was when Gorst and de Kruyff returned. Both sported red-rimmed eyes, but only de Kruyff was still sniveling. Matron, of course, was on hand to inspect the damage, to oversee the ritual showing-off of the marks. She always managed to be there for that. And as she supervised the lowering of the pajama bottoms, I waited for recriminations from either boy, for dirty looks or a Why didn't you own up? I got none. No, they were too busy recounting what it was like and how they managed to hold position to their admiring colleagues, and, for a few fleeting seconds, I experienced envy at the attention they were getting. When their tale was over and they'd slid into bed, my role in the caper seemed to have been forgotten. So, as Matron flicked off the light on her way out, all I felt was the thrill of having instigated the crime, and gotten away with it, free and clear.
As I walked into Michelle and Gus's large bedroom, though, I remembered how Gorst and de Kruyff had taken the fall for me. Sure, they'd been guilty, but morally and legally I was in it with them. This time, though, I wasn't interested in seeing someone else take the fall, especially my friend Gus. For one thing, he wasn't guilty. For another, I had no doubt at all that if he wound up on a hard chair in a small room, an experienced detective would have a field day with him. Maybe Gus would exercise his right to silence, but he'd realize pretty damn quick that the cops would be far more interested in his testimony than in pinning a crime on him that he didn't commit. Sooner or later, he'd tell all.
Easier for Gus, though, to avoid the whole situation. To pack a bag and head to his home country and disappear among the brown-skinned locals and the sun-seeking gringos. So that's where I checked first, his closet.
I looked for a row of empty hangers, for a stack of matching suitcases with one missing. Instead, I saw the three Hawaiian shirts he'd rotated, day after day, on the cruise I'd shared with him and Michelle. I saw a pair of flip-flops and only two empty hangers. I saw no sign he'd packed and left of his own accord.
I checked the bathroom next, opening the cabinet above his sink. I turned when I heard Michelle's voice.
“I did that already,” she said.
“You looked in here?”
“Toothbrush is there. So's his razor, shaving cream, and deodorant.” He could buy all that stuff new, and she realized that. “He loves that razor, I'm sure he'd have…”
“All his stuff looks like it's here,” I said. “Honestly, Michelle, I have a really strong feeling that he's fine. He loves you so much, and…” I cut myself off. “Of course, his guitar. Is that here? He's like me, he'd never go anywhere without his guitar.”
“I know.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It's the only thing that's missing.”
On Monday morning, I went to work as normal. It wasn't supposed to be my day in court, but Brian McNulty had called in sick, and Maureen Barcinski asked me to cover his docket.
“It's a short one, about four cases. Most are just reviews requested by probation. I think there's one case set for a plea, but Brian put notes in the system, so just follow his instructions.”
I carried my computer into court, barely paying attention to the proceedings. The best thing about being a juvenile prosecutor was that most of the action went on around you, judges and probation officers deciding the fate of the miscreant while we sat to one side and took notes. We only got really busy when a kid killed someone or committed some other kind of crime that caught the public's eye. That was pretty rare, and in my few weeks at juvie, the place had been unutterably dull. Note taking and a pretense at caring, those seemed to be the job requirements. Two things I could manage quite well.
My head snapped up when the judge called the case that was set for a plea. I'd not noticed the lawyer, a public defender, and his client set up at the defense table. I looked across to see Bobby staring straight ahead, smartly dressed and his back ramrod straight, as if he was trying not to look terrified.
“Is the State ready?” the judge said. She was looking at me like she'd said it a few times already, and maybe she had.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, standing. I glanced over my shoulder, a rush of excitement that I might see little Bobby's sister. She was at the back of the courtroom, studiously ignoring me, but I had trouble dragging my eyes from that pure-white skin, the hair I could almost smell from where I stood.
“Sorry to wake you, Mr. Prosecutor,” the judge said, a half smile on her face. Judge Barbara Portnoy had been a prosecutor once, and I think sympathized with the marginalized essence of prosecuting juveniles, the lack of any meaningful involvement. She bought into the idea that kids needed to be rehabilitated and not punished, no doubt about that, but she understood the frustration for us, seeing the same kids spinning through the system time and time again. And it irked her that so often the victims of these little hoodlums were left with no justice and, to them even worse, the financial burden of these potential angels stealing their stuff and crashing their cars. So she cut me and the other ADAs a lot of slack and threw us frequent pitying smiles as she sentenced the next serial burglar to serve six months of probation, at home. With counseling.
“My apologies, judge,” I said. “I was looking over the notes for this case—it's Mr. McNulty's.”
“We have a plea agreement?” the judge asked, looking at defense counsel.
“We do,” Derek James replied wearily. “We'd love to avoid the felony, but, given my client's history, I understand why Mr. McNulty declined to waive the burglary paragraph.”
“Your client's mother, or father, not coming?” Judge Portnoy asked.
“No, Judge,” James said. “That's Bobby's sister at the back of the room. She basically raises him.”
I glanced over my shoulder again and saw her give the judge a sad smile, which she held on to for my sake.
“Your Honor,” I said, back on my feet. “I've looked on our system at Bobby's history. It doesn't look all that bad to me. Nothing violent, and he completed a period of deferred prosecution for his previous offense without any issues. As far as I can tell, anyway.”
“Meaning?” The judge cocked her head and stared at me.
“I know a felony's harder to get off your record, and he's only twelve. Seems like a fair resolution would be a plea to a lesser-included. Maybe criminal trespass of a habitation.”
James about swallowed his tongue. “Your Honor, I'd have to consult with my client, but I'd certainly advise him to take such a generous offer.”
“This isn't your case, counselor,” the judge said to me. “Are you s
ure you can make that offer?”
“Yes, judge, absolutely.”
I wasn't sure that was true at all. When there was a victim, we were supposed to consult with them before any reduction of the charge. When it was someone else's case, we were supposed to check with the ADA who it belonged to, or Maureen, before reducing it from a felony to a misdemeanor. I hadn't done either, of course, but with a vulnerable and potentially grateful young lady sitting three rows behind me, the benefits seemed to considerably outweigh any likely fallout. And if one impetuous act gave me a sliver of power over Bobby's glorious sister and also pissed off Brian McNulty, so much the better. I didn't stop to think that people might figure out who his sister was, that I might be committing a crime by handling the case of a kid whose sister I was in lust with. Never mind the capital murder, I'd just placed my career on the sharp end of a small act of self-interest. I was manipulating the resolution of a case purely to further my own ends.
Morally dubious, of course, and something the American Bar Association forbade, through Standard 3-1.3, Conflicts of Interest, subsection (f): “A prosecutor should not permit his or her professional judgment or obligations to be affected by his or her own political, financial, business, property, or personal interests.”
“Good, then that's what we'll do,” said Judge Portnoy, giving me a grateful nod before putting on her formal voice. “Calling case number JV-45-969, In the Matter of Bobby…”
“Thank you,” she said, with a slight smile and a single bat of the eyelashes. She turned to her brother. “Bobby…”
“Thanks, Mr. Dominic,” he said, his voice small and his eyes downcast. “I really appreciate it.”
We were in the main reception area, packed with probation officers and parents, juvenile delinquents and witnesses, all milling around. It wasn't unheard of for a kid's relative to thank a prosecutor, if they'd been given a break. But if we hung around and chatted, curious eyes would lead to awkward questions.
“You're welcome,” I said. “Your new PO is probably waiting for you; maybe best not to say anything about knowing me.”
Bobby looked up. “I'm not dumb.”
“I know. Just…We probably shouldn't be chatting. I better get back to my office.”
She put a hand on my arm and spoke quietly. “Call me.”
I nodded and wandered away toward safety, the security door leading into the DA's office. Standing by it, looking directly at me, was Maureen. “What was that about?” she asked.
“She was saying thanks. I felt bad for them. That was the kid's sister, and from what the PO said, she's basically raising him by herself. They live in a shitty part of town and no parents in sight. PO said he's basically a good kid with some questionable friends, so I gave him a break on his burglary case.”
“A break?”
“Yeah, pled him to a criminal trespass.”
“You run that by Brian?”
“Brian, as you well know, is an idiot.”
She smiled, but like she was trying not to. “Fine. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“Yep, fine.”
“Good. I'm headed downtown for a meeting. If anyone needs me, tell them I'll be back tomorrow. And I'll check e-mail tonight.”
“Sure. Doing something fun?”
“A meeting. There's an investigation, they think it might be kids so they want to make sure they have their juvenile ducks in a row, in case they arrest someone. Detectives, and patrol, often fuck up when they arrest juveniles, so we're making sure they know to not question them until they're magistrated. More of a training than a meeting, maybe.” She sighed. “Anyway, this is one case they don't want fucked up.”
“Oh? One I've heard of?”
“I expect so. The capital murder at the mobile-home park, a couple weeks back.”
I didn't miss a beat. “Yeah, I read about it.”
“Nasty business. They think maybe kids are responsible, but they're not sure.”
“They don't have any suspects?”
“No. It happened pretty quickly, and in the dark. Plus, out there people don't much like talking to the cops.”
“East Austin, right?”
“Yep,” she said. “But far east, kind of in the sticks almost.”
“Good place to commit a crime, then.”
“Maybe. But they'll catch them, is my bet. There aren't too many unsolved murders these days, especially double homicides.”
“You might be right about that.”
“I am. Plus, they have some evidence.”
“They do?”
“Yeah. The gun that was used, that killed those guys. They think they've found it.”
I went to my car and took the burner phone from my glove compartment. I dialed Otto's phone and I sat there, impatient, as it rang and rang. Then I tried Tristan, praying he had his phone with him.
“What?” he said.
“Where are you?”
“Going out to lunch. What's up?”
“I'm going out to lunch, too. Meet me at Kerbey Lane Café on South Lamar.”
“Wait, I was just aiming for a sandwich at—”
“Something's up. See you in ten.”
We were early for lunch so had no trouble getting a booth without anyone around us. I ordered coffee and water, Tristan a Diet Coke.
“What's going on?” he asked.
“There's no easy way to say this, and I need you to stay calm. Remember, we're in public.”
His eyes bored holes in me. “I'm calm. What happened?”
“The police think they found one of the guns.”
Blood drained from his face. “What?” he croaked.
“I'm not sure which one. And I sure as hell don't know how.”
“Oh my God. What…what do we do?”
“Depends, I don't know how far along they are with the testing. Maureen told me they'd had a tip, found the gun, but she didn't say whether they'd even started the ballistics yet.”
“Oh, God.” His eyes filled with tears, and he looked down at the table. “Oh my God, it's over.”
“Do you know where Otto is?”
He shook his head. “If it's his, he'll tell them, won't he? He'll tell them everything.”
“Stay here and eat.” I stood and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “I have to go find him. Don't do anything until you hear from me. Eat, go back to work, and for fuck's sake stay calm.”
“How can I stay calm?” he hissed. “We're going to prison, and when—”
I leaned on the table and put my face close to his. “No. We are not going to prison. Otto is a smart man, he'll lay low, disappear.”
“What if it's yours?”
“Then I'll go back to England. Or Canada. Whoever it is will disappear and lay low.”
“Bullshit. The cops can find anyone these days.”
“Actually, they can't. Why do you think there's a top-ten most wanted? The FBI has one, every state has one. Shit, every local police department has one. That's a whole lot of wanted criminals on the run, unable to be found. Otto will be just one more, and we'll help him if we have to.” I saw Tristan's eyes flick past me and assumed it was the waiter coming back with our drinks. I put my hand out to shake Tristan's. “I'm sorry, family emergency, I'll call you later, yeah?”
Tristan nodded and I gave the hovering waiter a smile and said, “Sorry, gotta go.” I breezed past him and out of the door.
I'd handled a murder case where we thought the evidence was all in, and the trial was set. Four days before we picked the jury, the detective located the gun. Just like this time, it was an anonymous phone tip. They seized the gun from the cistern of a public toilet in a park in North Austin, and while the ballistics guy did his tests the detective ran the serial numbers. Finding the gun to identifying its owner took less than twelve hours.
Otto, as far as I knew, wasn't working. His erratic job schedule meant that even if he was, I wouldn't know where to find him. I drove to his little house on Porter
Street and saw that his car was in the driveway. I knocked on his door but got no answer. I peered in the front windows, but the curtains were closed and I couldn't see inside.
I started for my car when my cell phone rang, my boss Maureen's name popping up on the screen.
“This is Dominic.”
“Hey, Maureen here. Dom, can I ask a favor?”
“What's up?”
“On that double homicide we talked about. They just got some info and want to execute a search warrant. I don't want to talk about it on the phone, the guy we're after is…well, I helped them with the warrant affidavit, the judge signed it, but they need someone there when they execute it.”
“A prosecutor? That's unusual isn't it?”
“Not for a capital-murder case. If you can cover this one, I'll take back over with whatever else they need. I got a call from my son's school; he's sick and I have to pick him up.”
“When are they doing it?”
“Now. They're getting a SWAT team together, just in case. I'll text you the address. Wait, better still, I'll text you the staging point.”
“Sure, no worries.”
“Where are you right now?” she asked.
“At lunch. I'm done, though. Just text me the location; I'll be on my way. I don't mind waiting.”
“Thanks, Dom, I owe you one.”
I sat in my car and cursed myself. She'd asked me where I was, and if someone checked my phone log, it'd show I was right here. At the home of a suspect in a double murder. And it crossed my mind, a sharp, painful thought, that this was a trap. That they knew I was involved and they were luring me to my place of arrest. But I couldn't do much except play along, because if they had no idea, the last thing I needed to do was act cagey. Plus, if I was being suckered into custody, wouldn't they have me show up for a “briefing” at the downtown police station? My phone dinged and the message from Maureen came up.
Large parking lot behind Conoco on E Riverside / Montopolis. Asap.
